French Iss

We were eight rambunctious American teenagers strutting down the streets of downtown Montreal. One of us had a family vacation home in upper New York State, so the whole gang was checking it out for a week of summer fun. That included a day trip over the Candian border.

What to do on this bright sunny day?

"I've got to get me a Canadian woman. Haven't had one." So declared Greg, one of our self-appointed pack leaders. He was always on the make for a quick "dart," as he called it.

"Really? We're gonna be here for like two hours. What exactly do you think you're going to do?" The practical among us tried to nip this escapade right in the bud.

"I'm going to get myself a French kiss. These Canadians are all French. They're the best kissers in the world. And I don't mean on the lips." Our man Greg knew exactly what he wanted. He was a little short on Canadian demographics, but apparently an expert on the sexual skills of their women.

"Is that right? Just how good?" Yes, admittedly, our interest was a bit piqued.

"Better than Italians. Better than Hispanics. Even better than Japanese."

That last one actually intrigued us a little bit. I mean, didn't the Japanese have geisha girls? They had to be great with their mouth. Why else would they be geisha girls?

And French girls were better?!

Still, nobody was completely sold - yet.

"So how do you know all this? I don't think there's one French girl in our entire town." The skeptics among us put him to the test.

"My father," our stud replied. "He was a sailor in the Navy. He traveled all over the world. He had every kind of woman. He told me flat out that when a French girl did you, nobody else could come close."

Of course, this brought out the braggadocio in the other "studs" among us.

"Not so fast, big guy," retorted pack leader number two. "you guys all know that I had Betsy Lou you-know-who. And you know what people say about her. Well, it's double true. I can't imagine any girl being better than her."

A few murmurs of ascent from the gang. Of course, none of them had ever had Betsy Lou you-know-who, To tell you the truth, it was a little bit doubtful as to whether number two stud had actually had her as well. But we all knew her reputation, and that had to count for something.

However, not with our big boy.

"Are you serious? You're going to compare Betsy Lou to a French woman? And a professional at that?"

Professional? Did he say professional? This whole adventure took on a brand new set of implications.

Maybe we could bat around the fantasy of hooking up with some friendly French girls. Nothing of course was going to happen, but we could always flirt with the idea of darting, couldn't we?

But hiring a prostitute?

"What.. what..." stammered our most conservative buddy, an accountant-in-training for sure.

"You want to hire a hooker? Do you know how much they cost?" Not that he had any idea himself, but he knew it had to be big bucks. Isn't everything French expensive?

But our big boy had already crunched the numbers.

"I know, I know. The money is real. But here's the thing: if we all go in on it, I'm sure we could get a group discount."

Group discount. The guy was actually thinking all eight of us would chip in to purchase the services of a professional French prostitute. One by one we would experience firsthand the talents of the best "kisser" in the world. Or would it be all together? In twos or threes?

The possibilities were mind-boggling. Collectively, we probably hadn't seen enough stag movies to consider all the options. Maybe this escapade would become the subject of the next best triple-X movie! "Mimi of Montreal Does the High School Baseball Squad..."

No. Reality and the insistent lessons of Mr. Gordon in health class flushed to the forefront of our minds. The Mr. Clean of our bunch spoke for the rest of us:

"No way, no how, I am letting a woman "kiss" my you-know-what, after she "kisses" your you-know-what, Greg. That baby has been "kissed" way too many times for my immune system."

I am sure that at this juncture, you are expecting some dramatic climax to this story (so to speak, as it were :). Does Greg march off, disgusted with his wus friends, and find a woman to give him the French kiss of all kisses?

Or did the rest of us cave in, and succumb to the allure of that almighty kiss, throwing caution to the wind?

No such luck in either case. We had spent so much time arguing over the prospects of getting that kiss, that we simply had come to the end of our visit. It was time to get in our cars and head back over the border for more fun and frolic in our buddy's vacation home.

There would always be next year to get that French kiss.